


gourmet

by ataxophilia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, hannibal eating alana out, literally that is all this fic is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:51:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I used to think about this," Hannibal says, his voice like whiskey over ice, like a jus sharp enough to cut through meat. “Whether the scandal would have been worth it, to see you spread out on my desk, to take you apart like this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	gourmet

**Author's Note:**

> No seriously, this is just Hannibal eating Alana out, because why the hell not? Also it was requested of me and I always aim to please.
> 
> As unbeta-ed as always, so errors are mine, all mine.

There's music in the background playing too quietly for her to catch enough to recognise, and the taste of loin and berries still dancing over her tongue, and Dr. Hannibal Lecter is kneeling between her legs, his fingers tight on her thighs to hold them open.

Alana curls her fingers around the smooth edge of the wooden table and thinks about all the reasons this is a bad idea, the both of them blurry with wine, too professional to turn their minds off but not too clever to ignore themselves. She’d told Will that she always took her own advice, but she hadn't told him about Lecter, about the way he always used to smile at her with something dark and predatory in his eyes that aroused her and terrified her as much as it fascinated her. Her brain has been telling her to let Hannibal do with her what he will for almost as long as she’s known him.

"I used to think about this," Hannibal says, his voice like whiskey over ice, like a jus sharp enough to cut through meat. “Whether the scandal would have been worth it, to see you spread out on my desk, to take you apart like this."

The words make her stomach clench, her palms pressing harder into the wood, and she feels his laughter at that against the bare skin of her thigh. "It couldn't have made that much difference," she tells him, keeping her voice steady despite the way his fingers are playing just above her knees. “They already thought we were sleeping together."

Hannibal laughs again, his lips brushing over the lace at the top of her stockings. “Perhaps," he says, and the movement of his mouth makes her shiver. His tongue flickers out, catching the skin just past the cloth, and Alana makes a quiet gasping noise, like she’s desperate for air. “But there is no one to gossip at all, now. Our secret is-" she can hear the smile in his tone, a private joke that she doesn't understand, "-safe."

The alcohol, and the feel of his breath on her thighs, makes her slow to retort, too busy snatching inhales and trying not to knock over any of the wine that she’s sure cost more than her dress did, but she barely gets a chance to think anyway. Hannibal traces higher up her thigh with his tongue, steady, careful - like he’s tasting her, savouring her - like someone taking the first mouthful of a good spirit.

Her whole body tenses when he reaches the top of her leg, when she can feel his cheek next to her underwear, but the release doesn't come, there’s no pressure on her cunt for her to buck into, just a moment of stillness that stretches into a knife-edge. And then, “Dear Alana," he breathes, almost a laugh, so close to her that she can practically feel the shape of the words. “Relax."

It’s a command more than a request, and he turns into her ever so slightly as he says it, the corner of his mouth pressing against her, and her back arches, pushing her hips up into the contact. Something about the waiting, the teasing, is making her hungry, making her want Hannibal more than she can remember wanting a man for a long time. If she were more sober she’d analyse that, unpick the desire coiled hot in the centre of her, but she’s beyond reason now, caught up in wanting rather than thinking.

Hannibal drops one hand from her knee to stroke over the base of her stomach, fingers dragging through the silk. Once his palm has reached her hip and tightened around it, holding it in place, he presses his mouth closer to her cunt, open and easy, running his tongue up the length of it through her underwear. Her breath catches in his throat, the warmth of his lips echoing through her body, and he huffs quietly, tuts a little as he pulls back.

"I want to taste you properly," he tells her, his fingers trailing down from her hip to hook around her underwear and pull it to one side, out of his way. Alana thinks she would feel ridiculous, with her dress hitched messily up by her hips and her cunt bared like that, but with Hannibal watching her so intently, like one of his creations, one of his feasts, she just feels wanted instead. He whispers, “Perfect," a smile tugging at the word, before ducking his head close again, his tongue tripping over her properly, and Alana imagines this is how goddesses feel when worshipped at temples, when blood and bodies are sacrificed to them.

The wood bites into her fingers as she tightens them reflexively, and the pain grounds her, keeps her anchored as Hannibal drags his tongue up to her clit and circles it slowly, exploratory. Even now, with his mouth against her cunt, he is teasing, playing with everything except where she wants him to be, and she loves it as much as she hates it, the pulsing need need building up under skin.

And then, then he closes his mouth around it and sucks, cheeks hollowing, and the air rushes from her lungs, pours from her lips in a stream of profanity. Her free leg closes, curls across Hannibal’s back as though to pull him in closer, and her hips lift from the table, bucking up into his clever, wicked mouth.

Orgasm comes like a tidal wave, racing through her from her cunt to the tips of her body, sending her shuddering and moaning against the table, one arm knocking the glass of wine over, and it spills around her neck and her shoulders as Hannibal works her through the last sparks. “Stop," she tells him, brokenly, when it starts to hurt, when the sensations feel like being blinded, and he leans back against her thigh, lips and cheeks and chin wet with her.

"Thank you," he says, smiling sharply, like she’s done him a favour, and she sags back against the wood again before her mind can start explaining that, too.


End file.
